Mistaken List
by Competent Mellophone
Summary: John Watson sits in 221B Baker St. and Mrs. Hudson brings him the wrong coffee made by the direction of a list left by a certain consulting detective. Post-Reichenbach. Oneshot.


The headache was becoming a regular occurrence. It wasn't an incessant pounding – No. It felt like there were three invisible bricks tied to the top of his head; a pressure that couldn't easily be ignored. If you asked him he would deny it, but inside his head he would be comparing it to the feeling after Sherlock had "spiked" his coffee: a disillusioned spinning feeling brought on by hallucinogens and manic fear.

He'd close his eyes and lose which direction was up and down. He compared the feeling to what he supposed an astronaut must feel like; a pressing from all directions balancing out the gravity of the earth beneath his feet. _Don't be ridiculous, John. The earth's not beneath your feet, it's beneath the foundation of the building. If anything, your chair is on the earth and you're just lazing around on top of it. Now move. I have to get to my maps of Scotland. I shoved them under there when Mrs. Hudson made me __**clean**_ _- apparently she's not our housekeeper._

John pictured Sherlock's smirk and gave an involuntary chuckle, but it made the pressure increase from three bricks to five, so the laugh turned out sounding more like a strangled cry. He remembered now why he had been wary of returning to 221 Baker St. It had taken him a while to shake himself out of his stupor – No, stupor wasn't the right word. He had been completely aware the entire three months he had been avoiding the apartment. Maybe too aware. John shuddered and tilted his head behind him to rest on the back of the chair. He traced the pattern of the wallpaper past the bullet-holes and past the experimental blood-spatters (with carefully measured length, height, spread of droplets, and angle of delivery labeled on masking tape) up until it met the ceiling. From there he just stared upwards blankly, willing the bombardment of memories to just… Stop.

"John dear, how are you doing? Can I get you anything?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but that won't be necessary."

"Some coffee then?"

Sigh. "Thank you."

John didn't know how long he stared at the ceiling. Sherlock would have chided him for his lack of observational skills, because when Mrs. Hudson came in, he didn't notice. At some level he must have registered the smell of the coffee, because a little while later his hand reached out and expertly (yet, somewhat shakily) grasped the handle.

With his eyes closed and the mug held close to his face, John breathed in. He could almost imagine it was a little over two months ago. He carefully placed a pillow in his lap and felt the familiar weight of his laptop (which he hadn't opened since, well, the "fall" as he'd taken to calling it). He imagined Sherlock's presence behind him sitting at the kitchen table. He'd be looking through his microscope – not gazing; Sherlock never gazed. He'd just sit there. Staring. Sometimes commenting on the length of John's posts: _How can you have that__ much to say and still not say anything at all? You're missing the facts, John. The __**facts**__. _

He imagined his own reply: _People don't want to hear just the facts, Sherlock. They want to hear about __**you**__. You know, what you do when you're not off being some wonder-detective._

_Me? Why would anyone want to hear about **me**?_

John lifted the mug to his lips, ready to complete the illusion with a dismissive sip of coffee and a carefully calculated eyebrow raise, but the moment the coffee entered his mouth – the illusion shattered.

"Mrs. Hudson! What did you do to my coffee?"

"I'm sorry?"

"My coffee! What did you do to it? Is there _sugar_ in it?"

"Oh dear… I just assumed that the list… Well, never mind, it must be a mistake. Oh, I suppose I'll never understand him. Let me make you another cup."

"Thank you." Pause. "Wait – list?"

"Let me go get it. I'm surprised I didn't notice it before. It just sort of, showed up. I get back from the shops and there it is, just lying on the cupboard." Here Mrs. Hudson reached the bottom of the stairs and her words became garbled. John inhaled the aroma of the coffee one more time before setting it back down on the side table. "—why he didn't just give it to me. Well, now I'll never know."

"Sorry – still a bit behind. What list?"

"See for yourself."

Mrs. Hudson set a sheet of paper carefully on the pillow seat cushion on John's lap. Still a little confused, he peered tentatively down at the immaculate handwriting filling the page. Item by item, he pored over the list. After the first couple sentences, John stood up. Stumbling, he half-ran to his old desk. He forcefully pulled open the top right drawer and removed a short note from its contents. It merely read: "CRIME IN PROGRESS. PLEASE DISTURB." He lay this note and the list side-by-side on the desk, taking the care to smooth out both papers.

John's hand began to shake and the headache, which he had pushed to the back of his mind, returned. The weight was so much more real now. Instead of three or five bricks, there were now at least ten or fifteen, all pressing down on his head. He didn't have the strength to make it to his old bed; he just sank to the ground, and with the list still possessively grasped in his right hand, he succumbed to the exhaustion that had taken up residence in his head, his whole body, for the past two months.

When he woke up the paper was crinkled. Still sitting prone on the floor, John smoothed the paper out on the floor:

_Mrs. Hudson –_

_I'll be gone soon. (Oh sod it, I'm terrible at writing heart-felt letters. That's why I have John.) By the time you read this I'll be dead. I can't profess to know how John will handle it, but I know that he'll need you. He'll forget about himself, he'll lock himself away. He'll move out. No, don't argue, I can _read _him. Don't let him waste away. Here's all you'll need to know:_

_The Intricacies and Particularities of John Watson – _

_John likes a tidy apartment. He may have gotten more used to it in the past year, but he still whinges at me. (Yes, I _know_ you're not our housekeeper, but this is for John.)_

_John cares about people too much. Make sure he doesn't lose that. Make sure he doesn't lock himself away._

_John likes his tea with a little bit of honey and no milk._

_John likes his coffee with two sugars (non-hallucinogenic)._

_John hates having to do the shopping – make sure his fridge is stocked._

_If John gets too boring, hide his mobile and tell Lestrade to text him repeatedly. It's amusing to watch him flounder._

_Make sure John writes in his blog. _

_Tell John not to see that therapist – she's useless._

_I know this is a lot to ask of you, but please, Mrs. Hudson, can you do this for me?_

_Your friend,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

John squinted. He reached for Sherlock's microscope and it almost toppled over the edge of the kitchen table. Aligning the bottom of the page with the view from the lens, he was able to see two words that had clearly not been there when he'd fallen asleep:

_Goodbye John._


End file.
